Trust Me

Trust Me

©Copyright Natasha Blackthorne 2014

Edited by Jon Rauch

Cover Art ©Copyright Natasha Blackthorne
2014

Kindle Version

All characters appearing in this work are
fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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This e-book contains explicit erotic scenes
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DISCLAIMER: Natasha Blackthorne writes
romantic fiction for entertainment purposes only. Please do not attempt to use
this book as a “how-to” book for any topic. Her works are not meant to be a
guide or a representation of modern BDSM practices or lifestyles. Please seek
the guidance of an experienced practitioner and/or your personal physician
before trying any new sexual practice. The author, Natasha Blackthorne, will
not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of
the information contained in any of her titles.

Trust Me
is
written in British English.

Trust
Me

By Natasha Blackthorne

Book
two in the Regency Risks Series

Dedication

Sincere
thanks to Carol, Tammy, Tarah, Katalina, Gabrielle, Juanita, Kitt and all my
Facebook friends. Thank you all for helping me to keep my balance and focus and
for understanding me.

Thank you
to my editor, Jon Rauch

Thank you
to all my readers and those who have helped and supported me.

Special
thanks to Alvania Scarborough.

Dear Readers

Trust Me
is an
erotic historical romance. It features frequent, graphic descriptions of sexual
acts and frank sexual slang from the time period. As a work of historical
fiction, it is not meant to be an accurate portrayal of modern BDSM lifestyles
or practices. It also contains arcane medical and sexual beliefs and practices.
It is not meant to be an accurate portrayal of modern treatment or recovery
from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Devon,
England

Autumn
1819

Chapter One

The clock on the mantle chimed
once and then was silent. Jon had never expected to find himself already in bed
at one in the morning on his wedding night. Much less to be ensconced in a
rented cottage in the country and married in a private ceremony witnessed only
by servants.

But then, he had entered into a
very different sort of marriage than he had ever intended.

His wife lay in his
arms, her naked body limp, slightly damp with sweat. Her scent surrounded him:
lavender, rose and all the sweet aroma of a woman’s sexual arousal. Firelight
burnished the dark honey colour of her skin to glowing amber, and her hair lay
spread over the white pillow, blacker than ink. Her thick lashes lay like sooty
crescents on her cheeks. Her full lips were a rich burgundy wine.

She reminded him of
the Creole women he’d known in the Caribbean and New Orleans. However, for all
her being half-Spanish and raised in Ireland, Anne was wholly English in her
manner.

That contrast
fascinated him. Endlessly.

“I feel your stare…
it’s burning me.” Her voice was soft, slightly breathless.

“You’re too
beautiful.”

“You sound aggrieved
over the matter.”

Perhaps he was.

He had anticipated
marriage being different. Once he’d gained her acquiesce to wed him, he had
expected some relief from the pressure of his feelings. Instead, he’d
experienced a letting go of his remaining resistance to her appeal. He traced
his fingertips over her check and chuckled softly. “You’re too beautiful.”

The barest hint of a
smile flirted over her full, sensual lips. “You
are
aggrieved.”

She rolled away, and
pressed into his stomach with her broad, round arse. He slid a hand over the
gently curving cheek, lingering to savour the satiny texture of her skin. Lust
pulsed in his loins. He gave her buttock a smack.

“Too damned
beautiful.” He gave her another smack.

She jumped and gave a
soft squeal. “Ow!”

He pulled her halfway
back towards himself. “You can roll away from me but you cannot escape. Not
now.” He slid his hand over her hip and down between her legs to cup the plump,
warm softness of her mons. His other hand he rested at the base of her throat
and felt the beat of her pulse. “I own you now, in every possible way.”

Satisfaction surged
through him. She was his. Completely.

And he felt the
increase in her heartbeat. The gush of wetness between her legs.

It had been like this
the past few days since he’d brought her from Plymouth to the rented cottage in
Devon. He was mad to have her, again and again, as though not more than a few
hours could pass before their flesh must meet. And there had been no room for
novelty or games, he just had to have her.

He had not intended
to take her again tonight. It really wouldn’t do to wed her and then
immediately take to treating her like a whore. Or even a mistress. But she was
always making him lose his control. He shifted their bodies until she was
beneath him, then he positioned himself between her thighs.

She moaned and
pressed against his lower pelvis.

“Be still,” he
growled, and he thrust all the way into her hot, wet, tightness.

She moaned again and
hugged his shaft with her inner walls.

Desire knifed through
him and he groaned. He bent and put his face to the curve of her neck and
thrust and thrust within her. Harder, faster. He gripped her hips and gave her
everything he had to give. That’s how it was.

There was no hiding
his loss of control from her. No hiding the depth of his need.

The softness of her
belly, the surprising firmness of her generous, full breasts and their hardened
peaks, the feel of her body crushed beneath his, made his heart pound harder. A
renewed tide of blood rushed hotly into his cock, making it throb against her
tight walls.

“Jon! Jon!”

The sound of his
name, spoken so frantically in her soft voice, sent sparks of fire from the
base of his spine, through his shaft and threatened to make him spill.

He held still and
reached between their bodies to stroke his fingers over her nub. That little
protuberance was sweetly swollen and straining to his touch.

“Come,” he said with
his mouth against her ear. He nipped at her neck.

A reflexive shudder
racked her body. A fresh surge of wetness from her anointed his cock.

He nipped at her
again. “Come for me.”

She trembled and gave
that distinctive little catch of her breath, the most dulcet sound in all the
world. He held his own breath, his heart pounding even harder, his hand shaking
a bit with anticipation as he continued to stroke her. She trembled harder and
harder, her moans growing convulsive. Her inner walls clenched on his shaft,
over and over. Her nails raked from his shoulder blades, digging in, laying
slicing, stinging scratches down his back.

God. God. God.

His control broke.
His hips pumped frantically against hers.

The stridence of her
cries increased.

She was coming a
second time.

 
Her cunt grasped him, squeezed him. Pulled
him in deeper. She clenched him harder, wave after wave, a rhythmic suction
that made his cock leak frantically.

His hips arched
forward and his seed roiled through his rod with force, deep, body-rocking
surges of come erupting again and again. Heated splashes bathed his flesh as he
remained embedded deep within her. He collapsed upon her, panting.

Now
that
was a fuck.

Hard to believe he
had gone all his life as a man, all that time before, and been satisfied with
so much less.

He chuckled through his
panting and then he nipped at her neck again. “Wench.”

She gave a breathy,
soft laugh.

He clamped his jaw to
keep himself from spewing a gaggle of sentimental nonsense at her.

As he had done the
previous night.

Well, the chit
already knew that she had his heart twisted about her little finger. What good
did it do to keep reiterating the matter?

He pulled his weight
off her.

But she didn’t move,
her body remained limp beneath his and this time the scent of her sweat was far
stronger. He would have to make sure her nervous, intrusive maid didn’t attempt
to wake her too early.

He laid his head on
his pillow and took her hand and placed it to his cheek. He would lay here and
catch his breath and then go call for some hot water and…

Jon awoke with a
start and reached beside himself in the bed.

She was there.

Her body was warm. He
put his hand above her left breast and held it there, feeling the strong, sure
thump-thump, thump-thump
of her beating
heart.

Relief washed over
him. But his breathing was still rapid.

He had dreamt he was
at a palace attending a royal affair. And he had been so desperately looking
for her. Asking everyone he passed if they had seen Anne Bourchier, the young
widowed Lady Cranfield.

One old crone, a
flower seller who seemed to have snuck in the door, had shaken her head sadly.
“Lady Cranfield is dead. She died with young Lord Cranfield in that terrible
accident.” And she had handed him a delicate, white flower.

He had stood staring
at it, so pale and fragile against the dark grey of his suede glove.

White. Of course.

The symbol of a young
woman who’d died childless.

A peculiar chill took
hold in his guts. He wasn’t ready to give it a name. But it was damned cold in
here this morning. He shook himself mentally and with some reluctance he moved
away from Anne’s warm softness. She moaned softly and stirred but did not
awaken. He arose from the bed and rang for Toby, his valet, to bring him strong
black India tea. Then he sat at the small writing desk and tried to focus his
thoughts on the coming day. There were many details to consider for their
coming travel to Scotland.

Along with the
steaming-hot tea, Toby brought some letters from London. Jon had sent for his
mail a few days ago, but he wasn’t particularly interested in perusing the
stack just yet. He wanted to go for a ride and clear his head before he dealt
with any business matters. Yet he found himself frozen, staring at the steam
rising off his tea. He scowled.

That damned dream.

Why the devil would
he have asked for “Lady Cranfield” or “Anne Bourchier”? She was
his
wife now, Anne Lloyd, Lady Ruel.

“My lord.”

Jon lifted his gaze
from the teacup to his valet’s sober face. “Yes, Toby?”

“There is a letter
from the dowager.”

Jon raised his brows.
“Is there really?”

He scowled. He’d purposely
seen to all Grandmother’s needs and wants before leaving Mayfair for Plymouth.
What the devil could she possibly need now?

“I’d best have a
look.” Jon held out his hand.

Toby pulled a heavy
looking letter off the top of the stack and placed it in his palm. Jon stared
at Grandmother’s seal and couldn’t help curling his lip.

A most unwelcome
intrusion.

“Shall I bring you
anything else, my lord?”

“Kidneys and bacon.”
Jon said distractedly as he broke the seal on the letter.

An hour later, the
meat lay congealing and one of the grooms was exercising Jon’s horse. Jon had
begun drinking his second glass of Scotch and couldn’t help but stare again at
the words almost viciously slanted across the velum pages.

Lady S. tells me that this Lady C. threw herself at your head
and made such a spectacle of herself that you will be forced to marry her. It
is a matter of indecent interest that has set all tongues wagging. Lady W. B.
and the Countess of C. both say they believe you are already gone away on your
wedding trip. Is that it then? I demand to know! Have you married Lady C.?
Please tell me you haven’t wed this hoyden!!!

Untidy blots of ink
followed the last word and showed exactly how overset his grandmother had been
when she had written.

Anger burned through
him and his jaw actually ached. He tried to consciously relax it.

God but it galled him
beyond bearing that anyone could imagine that he would ever allow himself to be
forced into matrimony — or any other situation, for that matter—against his own
will.

But even more vexing
was the indignation he felt on behalf of Anne that anyone should believe that
he had not wanted to wed her. Or that she had thrown herself at him in a
shameless, desperate display lacking in pride.

Who had whispered
such tales?

He didn’t need to
think long on the matter to know the answer. The culprit came clearly to mind.
Lady Scott, otherwise known as Cherry to her intimates.

Then there was his
former fiancée, Lady Maria Waterbury, and the current Countess of Cranfield,
Francesca Bourchier. Neither woman would be inclined to kindness where Anne was
concerned.

His gaze returned to
the letter and several more lines seemed to leap up at him from the page.

Ungrateful boy! May God damn you to blackest hell if you have
wed such a shameless, drunken slattern!!! How can such a woman ever be worthy
or fit to shoulder the responsibilities of a countess of Ruel?

His anger burned with
more intensity. How like Grandmother to write such things so bluntly in a
letter that might be opened en route and read by anyone. She often lost control
over her sense. He could just see her now. Her blue eyes blazing, the cords in
her neck strained, her patrician face white with rage.

He compressed his
lips. Grandmother had apparently decided to take gossip as truth. She’d played
judge before even meeting his new wife.

He and Anne must go
to Mayfair and face all the rumours down.

That was all there
was to be done.

And people must see
Anne in all her dark beauty, her ducal aloofness. They must see the Countess of
Ruel the way he saw her. Not the way jealous, vindictive gossips painted her.
They must see for themselves that he had not been forced into any misalliance
but rather that he had found his true wife.

But this was going to
hurt Anne.

She hadn’t been in
Society in years. It would hurt her to be thrust back into Mayfair so quickly
after their marriage.

He had planned to
take her to his hunting box in Scotland for the winter. A whole season for them
to be alone, except for their servants, and to become accustomed to marriage.